Not long ago he wore a shabby shawl, a headscarf pinched in a top-knot, wooden dice in his ears and a bare ox-<hide> about his ribs, the unwashed covering of a hateful shield: the shameful Artemon, keeping company with the bakers and easy-prostitutes, eking out a criminal living. He often placed his neck in the stocks, he was often in the treadwheel, he often had his back whipped with a leather scourge, or had his hair and beard plucked out.
Now though he goes about in a carriage, wearing gold earrings, child of Cyce, and carries an ivory parasol, just as women <carry> them.